So I’ve been gone a while. I know. I’m sorry. But in that time I’ve been having super fun making my hair several different colours.
When I was a little kid, my hair was pretty unusual. All the other two year olds at my birthday party had wispy blonde top knots, but I had a thick, dark brown bob that brushed the tops of my shoulders. By the time I reached kindergarten, my hair had grown to my hips.
Whenever I went to the hairdresser, they would say,
‘Don’t you ever dye this hair!’
My mother would smile benevolently and tell me she agreed; she would make sure of it. I would nod politely, before the hairdresser would still my bobbing head with a firm hand on my chin.
When I was 14 I cut it all off. It felt like the best option. If I wasn’t allowed to colour it, I would at least control the length of it.
This didn’t quite work in my favour.
I spent three days crying and four years growing it back out. (I cut it back to a bob again at 17, for reasons which still aren’t clear to me.) But when you are an adult, and paying for yourself, you can make your hair any colour you want. Any colour! For example: Bright Red.
After months of anticipation and excitement while I waited for dye in the mail and waited for my friend to have a free afternoon to colour my brunette locks the day finally arrived. I sat with butterflies in my stomach as my hair was bleached to a strange combination of yellow and orange. Then more butterflies as a thick pink dye was painted on. It didn’t look quite right. I showered, and let my hair dry and styled it, and did my makeup. But there was no denying it, no way around it.
My hair was a fabulous shade of highlighter pink. I was so disappointed.
In fact, I was miserable. So much so that I actually called in sick to work the next day and went to have it re-dyed at a salon. I swear to you, when I walked in to see my regular hairdresser, (who had been dying my hair a much more subtle shade of red for a few months), my face blushed the same shade as my stupid florescent hair! But she fixed it. I left the salon with a majestic mane of ‘inferno red’ hair. And I rocked it. I absolutely owned it. For three weeks.
After three weeks, I went for a swim. I did all the right things, you know? I washed it in clean, cool water first. I combed conditioner through it. I plaited it, pinned it up, wore a cap. But when I emerged from the pool my crown was not ‘inferno red’ any longer. ‘Carrot orange’ perhaps? That might be a better description.
I suppose a solution would be to never swim again. But my solution was to text my mum and ask her to help me dye it brown.
Love to xx
I could almost see her smug expression in her text message.
So now I’m back to brown (nearly black) with a few skunky red patches, and I think I will stay this way for quite a while.
This is Julia, being grown up and realising sometimes mother really does know best.